


Like a Dog Watching a Rabbit

by choirboyharem



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: F/M, Female Bruce Wayne, Minor Knifeplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-07-08 10:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19868266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choirboyharem/pseuds/choirboyharem
Summary: "That’s why I like you so, so much, Bri.” He’d drawn the tip of the blade down the column of her throat before digging it into the fabric of her turtleneck. “You never run away. Even when you know it’s always going to get you into terrible, terrible trouble. Little, pretty, swiss-chocolate-flavored adrenaline junkie. Nuclear. . .” He’d started to tear the sweater, dragging the knife down. “. . . jailbait.”





	Like a Dog Watching a Rabbit

**Author's Note:**

> This was commissioned by the lovely @jeromeisvictorious on Tumblr who wanted porn of Jerome and a female Bruce, and I couldn't have been happier to make that happen. (Say hi to me over there under the same username that I have on here if you want.)
> 
> This is set somewhere in mid/late season four. It's all a bit vague. Also, slight heads-up for mentions of an Oedipus complex (that we all know is canon).

“I don’t mean to call you such a _slut,_ darling,” Jerome whispered in Brielle’s ear before his tongue brushed over her cheek, “but just look at you.” He stroked his fingers over her slit, just barely dipping inside her. Brielle bit down on her lip and shuddered. “Don’t know what I was expecting from a little girl with daddy issues, but—”

“Shut up,” Brielle said breathlessly, the poison in her voice not nearly as biting as she needed it to be. “Shut up, j-just, please.” Her hips gave a little jerk, her fingers clenching in Jerome’s jacket sleeve. He laughed against her, pushing two fingers inside her and making her cry out. Jerome’s free hand clapped over her mouth, his glove suffocating her. 

His eyes flashed. “Can’t wake the help, can we, now? I think he’d have, ah, some issues with seeing his princess get so ruthlessly deflowered.” Jerome slid his fingers in and out of Brielle in a steady, unforgiving rhythm, curling them inside her, motioning forward. Tears jumped to her eyes from the stimulation, her thighs shaking, her whimpering muffled behind Jerome’s hand. Brielle couldn’t even force the irritation from the constant nicknames, the prodding, the smugness, the fact that she’d let him do this even if he _had_ shoved her against the wall and cut her shirt open—

Her turtleneck was in tatters. The front hung open in a jagged line, severed along with the ribbon that had been holding her bra together. Brielle could still feel the sharp burn of the bite Jerome had left on her right breast, his teeth pulling at her sensitive skin. 

_“You still have a lot of growing up to do, don’t you?”_ Just one of his hands could cover up most of her chest. Jerome was so much _larger_ than her, in every sense of the word. Even as he fucked her easily on his fingers, soaking himself with her, Brielle could feel how big he was. 

And how big he was going to feel. 

“So fucking wet already,” Jerome hissed, pushing in deeper and stroking her walls. Brielle let out a sob, squeezing her eyes shut, her head falling back against the wall of the study. She’d lost. She’d lost about fifteen minutes ago, really, when she hadn’t been able to escape his grip and break her knuckles against the white, drunken-stitched scars on his face. He’d pinned her wrists against the wall and violated her all with the click of the switchblade in his other hand. 

_"That’s why I like you so, so much, Bri.”_ He’d drawn the tip of the blade down the column of her throat before digging it into the fabric of her turtleneck. _“You never run away. Even when you know it’s always going to get you into terrible, terrible trouble. Little, pretty, swiss-chocolate-flavored adrenaline junkie. Nuclear. . .”_ He’d started to tear the sweater, dragging the knife down. _“. . . jailbait.”_

Brielle twisted her fingers in Jerome’s jacket sleeve and moaned, wet and tearful, her hips snapping just before he pulled his fingers back out. When he did, she almost wanted to scratch his eyes out. 

He sucked on the dripping digits, watching Brielle like a dog watching a rabbit. Jerome grinned around them before pulling them out, licking his lips. "Oh, I wanna taste you inside and out." He shoved her leg up, hitching her thigh over his waist, forcing a gasp from her out of shock. "Pretty skin. Pretty pink skin. Cut you up and lick all the strawberry jam off your bones." He slid his tongue into Brielle's mouth, reaching between their bodies, distracting her with a kiss so she wouldn't have to panic or make another attempt to fight back as he busied himself with his pants.   
  
And Brielle wouldn't have/couldn't have fought him. She wouldn't have been able to force herself to do it. At this point, it wasn't about Jerome, she firmly told herself. It was the fact that she was frustratingly turned on and she needed some kind of relief. 

(Or maybe some part of it was about Jerome. Maybe. Maybe it was about him grabbing the back of her neck in this same room the last time they'd met. Maybe it was about his fingers twisting in her hair, playing along with her because he couldn't keep himself from making a Broadway spectacular out of torturing and killing her. Maybe it was about the fact that Jerome couldn't physically leave Brielle alone that night, clinging to her, petting her, looking at her with a dark, perverted hunger and an insatiable need to rip her apart and see what was inside her brain. Maybe it was about the fact that Brielle couldn't force herself to kill him.) 

(Maybe it was about the fact that, the first night they'd met, Brielle was younger and smaller and more innocent and her body was working against her and a young man was clutching her to his chest and whispering in her ear, holding a knife to her neck, filling her with the same kind of terror and riskiness and danger that she was desperately trying to chase now.) 

Jerome rucked her skirt up, pushing it out of the way before he unsheathed his switchblade again, dipping it down between Brielle's legs. 

"No," she choked out, her chest suddenly clutching with fear. Jerome laughed and nuzzled the side of her neck, a mock-up of affection, her dark, heavy waves of hair tickling his nose. 

"Brielle, if I really wanted to hurt you right now," Jerome murmured, dragging his tongue along her skin, "you'd be _screaming."_ He pushed his knife underneath the hip of her panties, pulled it forward, and cut the fabric. She could feel the cool, sharp side of the blade scrape her skin as it twisted and she bit down on her lip.

(It felt _exhilarating.)_

Brielle took in a breath. "Why don't you?" 

The band over her other hip snapped. "Oh, well, obviously, of course I do," Jerome said, as if he were discussing a lunch date. "I wanna hear the _pop_ when I snap those tender little bones in half. I need to make you _bleed_ for me, darling. But not tonight. We don't have enough of an audience." He twisted the switchblade again and pressed the flat of it against her, drawing it lightly, slowly over her clit. Brielle hid a trembling moan in her sleeve, feeling a gut-punch of heat that rushed down through her. 

"Ooh, I knew you'd like that," Jerome murmured, scraping the blade over the inside of Brielle's thigh. The tip hit the hem of her stocking, pin-pricking it. "I knew you would. You know, we really are so much alike, Bri." He withdrew the switchblade, sending it back up the sleeve of his jacket before pulling her leg up higher. Brielle didn't have any time to feel ready before Jerome pushed himself into her, sinking her down onto his cock. 

And she'd been right earlier. About him being a lot to take. Brielle felt split in two from him, the air forced from her lungs, feeling gagged and bound from the way Jerome was handling her, both physically and emotionally. She hated the way she was forced to grab at him, cling to him to steady herself. She'd let it happen, but he'd still made her feel endlessly helpless and she was going to loathe both him and herself after this. 

His breath shook, heavy near her ear. “So tight,” he growled. “So tight, _fuck.”_ Jerome kept Brielle pinned firmly to the wall, holding her so tightly it felt like bruises kissing her, marks that were going to form later. She was even less prepared when he began to move and it practically knocked the wind out of her. She wanted to be better than him, more certain of herself, more composed and prideful, keeping her compulsions under control, but Brielle wished Jerome wasn't wearing as many clothes so she could claw at him. She wanted him to feel something beyond what he was already taking. It felt imbalanced while she was little more than a doll in his arms. She wanted to draw blood. 

She wanted him to bleed on her hands. Brielle moaned into Jerome's shoulder, seeing little showers of sparks behind her eyes with every sharp snap of his hips. She had the choice between making too much noise or trying to muffle herself in Jerome's clothes, drawing herself impossibly closer to him in turn, so she had to pick the second one. Her dignity was in total abandon. She listened to him, his soft, rough groans lost in her hair, fingers sunk into her thighs. 

Maybe this was inevitable. What they were doing. Obsessing alongside being an object of obsession who had grown sickeningly curious and fascinated over months of strange nightmares and dreams and entertained thought was meant for disaster and chaos. How couldn't they have hit some kind of breaking point? 

“Is this your first time?" Jerome sounded so deep and rotten in her ear, slick and horribly smug. At least he sounded a little more unstable. She was doing _something_ to shake him (which, really, was just Brielle thinking complete nonsense in her denial, because he'd still taken her, corrupted her). "It _is,_ isn't it?" How could he have still laughed so clearly?

"Stop _talking._ " She hated how high-pitched and drawn taut she sounded. Brielle twisted and pulled on Jerome's hair, wrinkling his jacket in her other hand, gripping just to keep herself grounded. It was as if she could feel him in her guts. More, _more, more moremoremakemefallapartsoIcanchaseyoudownandeatyoulater._

"I've never—" Jerome shoved Brielle up higher, changing his angle before he pulled her back down onto his cock. She let out a choked-off shout that she could only shut up by biting down on his shoulder. There was a terrible pressure inside her, hot and searing low in her stomach, striking and building higher and higher with white little sparks in her veins every time he moved inside her. He seemed to have lost his train of thought, shaking and lost and desperate. 

"I've never," Jerome managed, his teeth scraping her neck, finding himself just well enough for a second, "I've never done anything so _romantic._ You're tied to me now, Bri, don't you see?" 

Maybe hearing her voice out of his mouth, animalistic and deep, was what snapped the pressure, or maybe she was just oversensitive. Maybe she didn't have to have a reason and him just being here, completing her in just a mental way that she didn't like to think about, was enough and she didn't have to think at all. Brielle felt her body clutch tightly and release. She collapsed into a trembling, limbless toy, crying against Jerome, tightening around him and fluttering from her oversensitivity. The aftershocks that made her twitch and whimper. 

And he didn't give her a chance to recover, either—if that was something she could've imagined. It was another handful of thrusts, his harsh panting sounding much too loud, clawing at her senses before he finally stuttered. From the heat of it, the warm, unfamiliar sensation as he slowed and stilled, his hips flush with hers, it was enough to send Brielle into somewhat of a dulled panic. This was dangerous. Too dangerous. What if something _became_ of this? 

Idiotically, she hadn't really thought about him finishing inside her, but there wasn't any point in thinking about it now. 

He wasn't unkind to her after he pulled away from her. He caught her before she fell to the floor in front of him, combing his fingers through her hair and shushing her softly as she tried to get her breath back. 

She wasn't going to let him have that much. Brielle pushed herself away from him, shakily slapping his hands away as she pulled together and held the front of her turtleneck, using the wall to brace herself. She felt exhausted, weak in every muscle, completely incapable of picking a fight, but she was still so close to doing just that. "Get out. Now. You got what you came for."

"I didn't, now that you mention it." Jerome seemed more cheerful and at peace than Brielle had ever seen him. He swiftly set himself back to rights in a way that seemed far too practiced. It made Brielle's stomach turn over to imagine how often and how recently he'd done just this with somebody else. (Jealousy? Absolutely not; that was just disgusting.) "But, as I said earlier, I'd rather we had an audience. It felt special enough that I had a change of heart, as it were."

"You could've spared me the humiliation and just killed me," Brielle told him, her voice at least managing to sound scornful like she'd aimed for earlier. 

"Why waste such an opportunity?" Jerome leaned forward and gave her a kiss, firm and suffocating, pulling her hair tight before breaking away, the tug on her scalp making her eyes prick with tears. "I'll see you again. Real, real soon. And now you have something to remember me by," he said with a giggle, his knife slipping down from inside his sleeve again so he could stroke her on her hot cheek with the cold blade. "Next time, I'll put that pretty little mouth of yours to work." 

Feeling a fresh blush turn her pink, Brielle clenched her teeth and yanked on Jerome's tie, punching him in the nose with all the strength she could still muster. It wasn't much. He did stumble back, nearly tripping over himself, but her spike of anger was enough to make her forget that her limbs were useless in keeping her upright and her self-defense had been broken down to a bare minimum. As blood dripped from Jerome's nose, rolling to his upper lip, his teeth snapped in a snarl and he grabbed Brielle by the throat, fingers clasping her skin. 

"The only other woman I've ever seen who was so goddamn unhappy after sex was my whore mother." With Jerome's eyes bright and flashing, Brielle felt his knife press against her stomach, the tip almost digging in. Her breathing was shallow and short, her pulse quivering under his hand. "Am I really that much of a poor, selfish lay, Bri?"

None of those words seemed like they belonged together. Not in the slightest. Brielle swallowed and blinked, feeling almost ill as she spoke again, her voice cracked. "Your. . . mother. . . ?"

Jerome flashed his teeth and released her. Brielle coughed and rubbed her throat, staring at him as the switchblade clicked back to safety and disappeared a second time. 

"You'll come to me the next time I need you." Jerome kicked at the mangled pair of panties that laid in a heap on the floor towards Brielle and turned on his heel, heading back towards the open window with a spring in his step. "And it'll be sooner than you think, so you won't have to miss me too much. I'll be real hurt if you don't, though." 


End file.
